CHAPTER 52 – RAJAM
CHIDAMBARAM – SEPTEMBER, 1935
Two weeks had passed since Kunju left. The Seemandham went on as usual, remaining a simple family affair. For this function, the main purpose was the actual chanting of verses in front of the holy yagnas and not a single ritual was left out. Mangalam did not want anything to be postponed and was grateful that no bad news had come thus far from Bangalore. Besides, Partha and his whole family had already planned their visit to Chidambaram and she was happy that the function went smoothly. The house was incredibly noisy, with babies crying, children screaming and yelling from all corners, just confusion compounded. Partha was tired of the noise and after dinner coaxed Rajam to the front thinnai to sit and talk peacefully. He had been speaking for a while when he realized that Rajam was preoccupied and hadn’t paid attention to what he said. “Where are you? Lost in thought?”
“Nothing. I am worried about Kunju, that’s all.”
“Me too. I hope Panchu recovers soon.”
“Yes. Six children.”
“And they sound like twelve.”
“You get used to the racket. In fact, I have hardly noticed it the last few weeks; they went by so fast. Oww!” she exclaimed, holding her belly.
“What? Did the pains start?” said an alarmed Partha. Rajam felt an elbow or knee press painfully against some organ and she winced in pain. Half of September had passed but the head was not fixed yet, although the baby was very active, especially at night.
“Looks like your baby is also in the mood for creating a ruckus,” said Partha in relief. He touched Rajam’s swollen stretched skin, feeling an ungainly lump on one side.
“Must feel strange having something alive inside you.”
“It’s like a butterfly; it flutters. This must be the best time of my life. Other than the first two months when I had the vomiting, I have never felt as good as I do right through my pregnancy. I only hope the childbirth won’t be difficult.”
“What does Chithi say? When does she think the baby will be born?”
“Ten months on the lunar calendar takes me to the end of October. But she feels it will be closer to the tenth of October because that is Krishnapaksha.”
“So?” Partha didn’t get the significance.
“Chithi says that babies are usually born closer to full moon and moonless nights. So either I will go beyond my date or come early. By the shape of my stomach, Chithi is sure it will be closer to Krishnapaksha; so maybe you should plan on coming then.”
“I can’t get leave. I’ll lose my job. Don’t forget I am the sole breadwinner.”
“I know. What happened about the papers? Did you sign them?”
“Yes,” said Partha sighing loudly. “That’s what happened all of last week. You can see how pulled down Amma looks.”
“Yes, I was shocked to see she sold her earrings. The pearl earrings don’t look right on her. I have never seen her without those huge rocks on her ears.”
“But she is proud of wearing the nose ring once again.”
“She sold it to buy me the Nagara, didn’t she?” Partha was silent.
“I knew it. She shouldn’t have done that. I should return it to her.”
“No, no, don’t do that. She will be terribly insulted. It is her blessing for the baby. Later, when I get a better job, I will buy her another pair.”
“What about the house? What are we going to do?”
“I have already found a two-room house. It’s not in the agrahaaram but at least we can afford the rent.”
“That is terrible. How will Amma bear to live outside the agrahaaram?”
“She has no choice. She has to accept it.”
Both of them turned and watched Nagamma through the open door as she sat in the thinnai with Mangalam and Chithi. Her face looked wan and her eyes were filled with sadness. She had lost a lot of weight, making her already large nose much more prominent.
“She looks terrible; she has really taken it hard. I wish I could help her,” Rajam said wistfully. “But I have to stay here.”
“She knows that. This is her problem and she will work things out, and while she does we need to be patient. She is a very proud woman and cannot stand people pitying her. You know that.”
Partha glanced at Rajam, who was still staring at Nagamma, her erstwhile nemesis, still in disbelief at the transformation of character.
“Don’t look sad. Good and bad things happen all the time. We go through everything secure in the knowledge that things change all the time. Today we have no home but tomorrow is another day and a new sun will rise. See how happy I am just waiting to hold Kamu in my arms. She will change our luck and life will become good again, so cheer up.”
“You are so positive, Partha.”
“It’s my way of coping. I have my life ahead. I know that right now I am not earning well but I have great hope for the future.”
The creaking of the gate interrupted their conversation as the postman entered. Rajam’s heart sank. She knew what a telegram at this hour meant and seeing the grave look on Partha’s face as he read it confirmed her suspicions.
Good news, bad news. How strange life was.
Part XVIII
Dharmu
CHAPTER 53 – BANU AND KANDU
RANGPUR – SEPTEMBER, 1935
“Neeye nao Maa, kee bhalo kaaj… neeye nao.” “Take it, look at this excellent work… take it,” urged the sariwallah, but Banu was not easily swerved from her resolve to get the best price.
“Naa, naa, daamta khub beshi.” “No, no the price is too high,” she insisted, trying to press him to reduce it even further.
Banu enjoyed haggling with the sariwallah, who loved making this annual trip to the bungalow because he was sure of a big sale, especially with Banu here as well. East Bengal was famous for Dacca4muslin — cotton thin as gossamer, perfect for this humid and hot September. Dharmu watched in awe, amazed at Banu’s grasp of Bengali and her skill in striking a bargain. Some people just had a knack for learning languages, an ability that boggled her own mind. She had chosen five saris — two for Meera and three for herself — and Banu selected a half dozen. The sariwallah came from a weaving loom in Dacca, the state’s capital, one of the few that had survived the British textile tax, imposed to promote cheap English cotton and prevent people from buying the far superior Jamdani muslin. The weavers had lost so much business that several looms had closed, nearly killing this art of weaving, another successful attempt of the foreign masters to strike and vanquish the local economy.
After haggling the price down by two rupees a sari, she was satisfied she had the best deal for these invaluable garments. Dharmu ran in to get the money while Banu made small talk with the salesman. Banu’s presence had changed the ambience in the house. Just knowing she was around made Dharmu wake up each morning in anticipation of a fun-filled day. Banu did not know exactly why Mahadevan had called her here but she was shocked to see Dharmu looking so pale and withdrawn. Dharmu hoped that Banu would not talk with the servants, who would need little encouragement before spilling the real story. But Banu’s behavior did not indicate she knew anything.
The girls loved having their aunt here, who did special things for them, such as tying their hair in an anju kaal pinnal, a braid made by separating the hair into five separate strands. She also put makeup on them, which was such a special treat, as Dharmu used no cosmetics other than talcum powder. Vani spent hours pouting before a mirror, admiring herself in bright red lipstick and imagining that she was a Hollywood star. Just as the satisfied sariwallah left, counting the money over and over again to reassure himself, Rukku came and sat at Banu’s feet with her comb, ready for the day’s beauty treatment.
“Today I want a French chignon,” she declared.
“Oh my gosh you girls! You want to be film stars or what? You are beautiful enough to be one though.” She pinched the cheeks of both girls and as she finished with Rukku, she turned her attention to Vani, who was hol
ding an English magazine and hoping that Banu Mami could copy the style from the picture.
“Vani, I have to oil your hair; it’s so curly, just like your mother’s. I can’t do anything with it.” Dharmu watched her girls chattering away gleefully with their aunt, who filled them in with all kinds of stories from their younger days at the Jameen. Dharmu never spoke to them much about her childhood and the children enjoyed getting the inside scoop from their aunt. Right then Kandu walked in, brown from head to toe after wrestling with Rover on the wet grass for the last half hour. He poured himself a glass of lemonade and then, after checking that no one was watching, helped himself to seconds. But he had not finished playing, so his bath would have to wait. While the girls were getting dolled up, he ran up and down the stairs chasing lizards. Somehow he always found some inane pursuit, which kept him completely engaged. If he wasn’t playing with the dogs, he was ordering the chowkidars around, catching butterflies or setting traps, but chasing lizards was his favorite pastime. Dharmu watched his strategy, smiling at his cunning. He would approach the lizard and in one swift movement swoop it up in the palms of his hands. Then for a few minutes he would pet it and then let it go. Some lizards were smarter, making the chase all the more enjoyable as he ran up and down and behind the stairs and across the grass till he cornered the hapless creature. Once cornered, the lizard would freeze up in fear, allowing Kandu to pick it up, only to pet and release it. What joy he got from this activity was unfathomable, but not a day went by without the lizard-chasing routine. He ran up the stairs and reached for some more lemonade.
“Uh uh… no more,” said Banu Mami. “Just drink water.” Annoyed, Kandu turned, ready to run into the kitchen with his muddy shoes only to be hauled back by an alert Banu Mami, forcing him to walk around the verandah to the kitchen. He was back soon, brushed and combed, with his bright yellow watering can in his hand ready to care for his favorite plant. He did this religiously, which was strange for a boy of almost six years. Kandu lost interest in most things quickly but with this plant he had been faithfully attentive for a whole year. He scrunched down, peering at the poor wilted plant and murmuring to himself. Having watched this ritual every day, Banu wanted to learn what interested him in this flaccid potted plant, which had no flowers, only sad droopy leaves.
“Kandu is this your plant?” she asked.
“Yes, this is my special plant because Appanshayal Thatha gave it to me as a present.”
“Oh I see, but why are you looking at it so intently?”
“See this small thing here?” He said pointing to an insignificant bump on the stem that was barely noticeable to the naked eye. Banu tried to examine the miniscule nodule on the stem but it looked so unimportant.
“It will become a flower,” Kandu added in delight, his eyes bright and alert.
“Really?” she responded, believing this to be a childish fantasy.
“Yes really, and maybe you can see it with me. I’m sure it will bloom soon.”
“Okay, that sounds super. I would love to.” Banu knew this was just a small malformation of the stem but she indulged him anyway, not wanting to dampen his fertile imagination. “So why is this so special?”
“Oh,” said Kandu, his eyes wide and wistful. “It has something to do with my future. Thatha said and it will bring good luck and plan my destiny.”
“What big words from such a small child. Where did you learn words like ‘destiny’?”
“Destiny means future. If I water the plant, it will flower and tell my fortune. I can make another plant for you if you want it to tell your future and bring you lots of luck.”
“That’s lovely. Is that my special present? Because I have a special present for you.” Kandu got excited as soon as he heard the word ‘present’. His birthday was on the eighth of October, and Mahadevan had asked Banu to bring some goodies for him.
“You will be very surprised,” she said hugging him so tight that he gasped out loud.
“Oh, can I see it now?” He asked, a little breathless after the chest-squeezing hug.
“No, you have to wait two more weeks, but I won’t give you yours till you give me mine.” Excitedly, Kandu ran out to get a pot for Banu Mami’s plant.
Banu smiled. ‘Silly boy, believing that a plant can bring good luck.’ But she didn’t want to spoil his excitement. In reality, she had no idea about the power and potential of the plant and the significance of its next blooming in Kandu’s life. How could she? Not even Kandu would understand its esoteric message. She looked at the nondescript nodule on the stem, shook her head in disbelief and walked inside the house.
_________
4Modern-day Dhaka, Capital of Bangladesh
CHAPTER 54 – MEERA
RANGPUR – SEPTEMBER, 1935
Meera was feeding Kandu baba rice and fish curry. He was full and kept insisting he didn’t want any more but she persisted. His cheeks got progressively larger, stretching beyond normal proportions as each spoonful added to the previous, all tucked into the corner of his mouth. Meera was lost in thought and her attention was not focused on Kandu. She was merely following a feeding rhythm without bothering to look at him, so when she stuffed in the next mouthful, his mouth reached its maximum capacity and he gagged, bringing up everything onto his plate and the floor. She suddenly awoke from her reverie and in sheer reflex slapped him on his back. Almost immediately she realized what she had done and was horrified. She was only the maid and had no authority to hit the child. Heaven knows what had got into her that she completely lost control like this. She was terribly nervous. If Sahib found out, that would be the end of her job. She was at a loss; she did not know whether to calm Kandu down or clean the mess. Any moment she expected Memsahib to walk in, and she had no explanation for her behavior. Coming to her senses, she yelled for the Jamadar to come in and clean the mess on the table and the floor.
Picking up Kandu, she ran into the bathroom and carefully shut the door after her. She cleaned him up and changed his clothes and all the while he cried and screamed at her. He loved Meera so much and couldn’t believe she had hit him. Just recently Mummy had hit him and now Meera. He felt as if his whole world were crumbling. All the people he loved were slapping him. Meera’s slap was a reflex action. If she had been thinking, she would have recoiled in horror at such an idea. Kandu was not crying from the pain but was livid that she actually had the gall to strike him. He was completely traumatized, as was Meera. She always cared so much for the children. Never even in a weak moment had she ever struck them. She changed him into his night clothes and then gathered him up in her arms and took him to the back porch, where she was sure no one would hear him. Memsahib and Banu Memsahib were sitting in the front verandah and they hadn’t heard anything. Thank heavens!
Meera had been feeling terrible these last few months. She hadn’t been herself. To Meera it felt almost as if a ghost of some self-seeking temptress had entered her body, making her behave in ways completely contrary to her character. “Kande na baba kande na,” she said soothingly, urging him to stop crying and calm down.
“Put powder on my ooa,” said Kandu woefully, referring to his stinging wound. Meera, as always, made it better by putting cooling talcum powder or cream on it.
“Show me where your ooa is,” said Meera lifting his kurta. Kandu was so fair his skin had reddened but thankfully, she had not hit him hard enough for it to form welts. She brought the talcum powder and sang to him softly as she rubbed his smarting back.
“Baba, don’t tell your Ma and Baba what happened. Okay? Let it be our secret.”
“Why? Asked Kandu, wondering why everyone wanted him to keep secrets, especially when it came to telling about him being slapped.
“Because then Ma and Baba will get angry and tell me to leave the house. Then who will sing songs for you, play with you and sleep in your room?” Kandu saw the logic in that. In any case, his wound was more psychological; the pain had lessened considerably after Meera attended to it and it didn�
�t bother him anymore.
“Okay, he said crossing his fingers, a twinkle in his eye. But only if you give me mishti doi.” Meera went into the kitchen to get his favorite dessert, yoghurt sweetened with molasses. She fed him, this time paying full attention, something she should have done earlier. Kandu ran off and Meera went into the kitchen to eat her dinner. In no mood to eat, she toyed with her food, her mind going over the wretched events of the last few months. Finally, her appetite non-existent, she left the kitchen to lament and wallow in self-pity in the safe haven of her room.
She had not got her period for three weeks, and even though a part of her rejoiced, she feared that God had really answered her prayer. Now she was in a terrible dilemma. In a few months her pregnancy would swell and show and Memsahib would know that she had done some gondogol. What explanation could she offer? She had not been home in six months, so Memsahib knew she hadn’t seen her husband. Soon the servants would gossip and talk behind her back and label her as wanton, which she was; temporary lunacy that left her feeling ashamed. She searched with little success for some rational justification for her behavior but in her heart she knew her actions were purely instinctive. A few moments of stolen passion leading to a lifetime of regret. But now what was she going to do? Just the other day she saw Kalia flirting with the cook’s daughter. She was a spring chicken; compared to her, Meera felt like an old hag in spite of being in the prime of her womanhood. Kalia was never going to marry Meera. She was just his whore and nothing else. In any case, how could she marry him when her husband was alive?
Her husband!! That was another problem. What was she going to say to him when she went back to the village? He knew he could do nothing; and how would he react to being cuckolded? Would he accept this baby as a gift from God? And if he didn’t, where would she go? Who would help her through childbirth? She couldn’t go home. Her parents were dead and she had no contact with any of her sisters or brothers. What was going to happen? She banged her head repeatedly against the wall shouting out loud, “Silly fool, silly fool, oh maago, why did you not think of the future? You should have thought of all this before you acted like a whore, wanting to fill your womb. Now what will you do, Meera, what will you do?” Crying hysterically, she let out all of her frustration, hitting herself repeatedly on her head, trying to slap some sense into herself. After a while she calmed down and thought about what she could do. But her psychological tumult merely churned out morbid solutions, which to her were the only salvation, true repentance for committing sin in the eyes of Banobibi.
When the Lotus Blooms Page 36